Living with the Sociopath
by A Study in Reichenbach Feels
Summary: John has to put up with Sherlock's crap all the time. This will be some NON-RELATED dabbling (FLUFF) of Sherlock and John's every day life, however normal, or not, it may be.
1. Pepper and Poison for Dinner

"No!"

"What's the big deal, John?" Sherlock whined.

John looked sternly at him, "No, Sherlock, there is no way I'm letting you help me cook."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" John stepped away from the kitchen counter.

"Yes, why not? Didn't you hear me? It's a simple question."

"Don't you remember the last time you tried to cook with me?" John answered.

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing what John had brought up. "Oh, that was hardly my fault."

"Hardly your fault?" John boomed, "So it was my fault that you had a greased foot hanging over the stove-"

"It was an _experiment_, John," Sherlock interjected.

"It fell into the stove's fire," John continued, pointing towards the stove as if he hadn't been interrupted, "nearly burning the flat to a crisp. It would have, too, if it wasn't for my quick thinking."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh please, John, everyone knows that a grease fire must be covered to reduce the flames. It's common knowledge."

John glared, then turned his back towards Sherlock, who tried, once again.

"I still don't see what that little accident has to do with-"

"Sherlock, I'm making dinner by myself, and that's final," John scolded.

* * *

Sherlock considered making a rebuttal, but held back and retreated to the living room. John would come to. He plopped into his chair, sulking with his skull and began playing his violin. Various noises came from the kitchen, John banged the dishes around, cussing as he dropped one on his toes.

From outside, there came a warm breeze that refreshed the mug apartment. John had opened the windows, it being a beautiful August day. Sherlock hadn't agreed, and he made the argument that the world's stupidity would flow in. They remained open, John's stubbornness making sure that Sherlock's pessimism wouldn't suffocate their small living space, in every meaning of the word.

Sherlock was playing a mysterious tune on his beloved violin, neither happy nor sad. John thought it slightly reflected Sherlock's personality. He was an interesting person, to say the least. When it came to odd things, he would be all over the matter, deducing away until he located the answer he was searching for. However, he was very sluggish when it came to everyday things, like dressing, eating or cleaning up. Or…cooking?

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called from the kitchen. Sherlock continued his melody.

"Sherlock!" No response. John pounded out of the kitchen, snatched Sherlock's bow out of his hands, and laid it on the coffee table. Sherlock peered at John through narrowing eyes. He knew not to touch Sherlock's violin.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked in a low, unstable voice.

"Why did you want to help me with dinner?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock began plucking the strings with his fingers.

"Because you've never gotten the milk, much less want to cook an entire meal. In fact, I cook every meal you don't eat out for."

"Why is this upsetting you? I should think you'd be happy about my willingness."

John wasn't satisfied. "But there must be a reason you suddenly want to help." He wanted to believe Sherlock just wanted to help, for once, but he couldn't bring himself to it.

* * *

Sherlock stared blankly at nothingness, still plucking various chords on his instrument. Finally he spoke. "There's a case Lestrade put me on and I need to experiment on the effects-"

"Of course!" John rolled his eyes, walking back into the kitchen, his suspicious confirmed. "There always is something in it for you, why did I expect any different? You can never just help with the work, like normal flat mates, and I suspect you never will." Sherlock followed him, leaving his violin on his chair.

"John, this is for science and education, I just need one portion of food and a drop of poison."

"No, no! You don't need anything, you aren't using the food I bought and prepared just to spoil it."

"But John I need to know exactly how much poison it should have taken to kill our victim. He may have had strong immunity to poison, and if he did then the murderer would have had to be close enough to him to know it. A family member… or a doctor perhaps?" Sherlock began thinking out the possibilities.

"Well it's a shame you're not going to test that theory, you can only have my food if you're going to eat it. Plus you don't have poison anyway."

"Do I not?" Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, glass vial filled with a green liquid. Sherlock smiled at John's expression. "Silly me."

"Where on Earth did you get _poison_, Sherlock?" John fumed.

"An old friend, he owed me a favor."

"Well next time don't try to trick me into helping you. Solve your own cases."

* * *

Sherlock made yet another deduction. "You're still upset about that? That was ages ago."

"That was three days ago Sherlock. You made a big fuss at two in the morning insisting I come with you only to run throughout London and find out your suspect wasn't even in England at the time of the crime. I hadn't gotten a proper night's rest in ages, and that tacked another one onto my restless nights. So yes, I'm still upset about that, and I'm still exhausted. That's why it would be nice if my flat mate would do something for once."

John turned to grab pepper for his meal. It was on the top shelf, so he grabbed one of the dining room chairs for him to be able to reach it, nudging Sherlock aside.

Sherlock offered to help, "I can-"

"I've got it!" John hissed and climbed onto the chair. His short arms and legs were not helping in the least, his fingernails scratching the side of the pepper container. John leaning over the chair, almost getting a hold on the pepper when gravity got a hold of it and the chair suddenly tipped too much. John struggled, wildly swinging his arms trying to regain balance, but all for nothing. John's chair collapsed to the ground and he followed shortly after, closing his eyes and bracing for the impact.

* * *

But the impact never came. John opened his eyes to see Sherlock looking down at him, holding in a laugh. Sherlock had caught him before he hit his head and John was now resting in Sherlock's arms.

"You should be more careful John," Sherlock chimed. He set John down next to him and grabbed the pepper without even perching on his toes. Sherlock handed the pepper to John, who was glaring at him.

"Are you sure I can't help you cook?"

* * *

**Thanks for reading my fluff 3  
****oh, poor short John**


	2. The London Eye

John's stomach was queasy. Not just from being this close to Sherlock. They were squished in a capsule with 23 others on the giant Ferris wheel overlooking the entire square. Sherlock was speedily shooting his gaze from one person to another far below them. It was a long way down, John could barely tell if the dots were male or female. But he figured Sherlock could deduct if a person was having an affair or about to rob a bank from this distance just as good as any. Still, he was extremely uncomfortable with such heights. But Sherlock had insisted on the company. They wouldn't let him on the ride with the skull.

* * *

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?" Sherlock answered, not breaking his darting eyes from the ground below.

"I feel sick, I need to get off this blasted thing." Sherlock disregarded John, he was there for a reason.

"Sherlock, why are we even here?" John complained.

"I told you, I'm on a case."

John wanted a little more information than that. "Who are we looking for? And why can't we do it on solid ground?"

"John, there is much more ground covered if we can get up for a better view, it is simple logic. Plus, we don't want to risk him seeing us and running before we have a chance to catch him. He'll be here, I know it. This was the drop off date, time, and place, I couldn't have decoded the message incorrectly."

"Who will be here-oh never mind." John had accepted that he wasn't going to get much more information from him.

* * *

Just as those words made it out of John's mouth, Sherlock shrieked with delight, "That's him!"

John aligned his eyes with the finger Sherlock was pointing with. "The guy with the leather jacket?"

"Oh, Yes!" said Sherlock, spinning about, getting strange looks from the other passengers. John yanked on Sherlock's arm, forcing him to stop gaining attention. They glanced back towards the leather-jacketed man. He seemed nervous; edgy, like a deer suspecting the hunter nearby.

"Sherlock… he's going to take off…"

"I know," Sherlock whispered. "Bloody hell!" his voice suddenly raised in volume, earning another correcting glare from the mothers covering their children's ears.

"Keep your voice down, Sherlock," John warned. Sherlock pounded on the glass yelling, "Stop this ride immediately!"

John struggled to keep Sherlock contained. "Sherlock, if you have a bloody fit, he'll see you and get away! Just ride it out."

Sherlock paused, looking into John's eyes. "For once, you don't sound like an idiot, John," He turned so John wouldn't see his subtle curling smile.

* * *

They sat on the bench together, waiting anxiously for their time on the ride to be up. Sherlock kept his eyes glued on the murderer who was in on the conspiracy he had been chasing down for weeks. Lestrade had been clueless, of course. He couldn't spot a clue if you shoved it in his face. This wasn't the case for Sherlock Holmes. He had caught on to their scheme quite quickly. In fact, it was hard for him to understand how slow-witted everyone around him appeared.

Finally the ride came to an end. Sherlock shoved his way though everyone and burst through the capsule's door first, John right behind him, apologizing to everyone as he went. Sherlock searched frantically for the man in the leather jacket. He had only let him out of his sight for a moment; some idiot from the ride had gotten in his way.

"Blast!" Sherlock said, frustrated. He motioned for John to search to the left as he merged toward the right. John strode in the direction Sherlock had motioned, searched for any sign of their objective. Sherlock spotted the now familiar jacket and called, "John!" in a hushed, but urgently strained voice.

John heard his call and sped to where Sherlock was standing with a palm facing towards him. John stopped. Sherlock leaned in towards John, "We must move quickly but quietly, we have to catch him alive." John nodded.

* * *

They both did their best to move naturally, trying not to catch the man's attention. But they did. He looked in the duo's direction, they seemed to be walking right towards him.

"He's going to run, Sherlock…he's-" John blurted nervously.

"I know!" Sherlock yelled. He leaped into action, darting down the stone pavement. John sighed, but followed him in the chase. The leather jacket bolted in the opposite direction, realizing they were onto him. John and Sherlock chased him for almost fifteen minutes, hurdling the various obstacles the man hurled at them in desperation to get away.

"Sherlock-" John huffed, completely out of breath.

"We have to outsmart him!" Sherlock yelled, "Keep on him!"

Sherlock broke off from the runner's trail and disappeared into the back sidewalks in between the apartments all around.

"Sherlock!" John called back, still stumbling towards the man they were chasing, who seemed pretty exhausted, too. He hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing, because his legs were burning and he was sure to give in to that burning desire to slow down and breathe very soon.

* * *

The man swerved a hard right down an alleyway surrounded by tall apartment complexes. John copied him, but he was falling behind.

'Oh, no…' John thought. 'I can't run any longer…' he closed his eyes, trying to endure the pain in his lungs.

There was a loud crash, and John slowed to a stop, gasping for air. Alongside some knocked over trash bins, Sherlock laid atop the man in the jacket, removing the pistol he had stuffed in the back of his trousers. He disarmed it, then slid it towards John, who pulled his own pistol and aimed it at the man being held hostage under Sherlock's weight.

* * *

"So that was your plan?" John said in between breaths, "Try to guess where he was going to go and beat him there?"

"I didn't guess, John."

"Yes, you did."

Sherlock smiled. "Phone Lestrade. We've caught one of the conspirators. I'm sure he won't mind giving away the rest of them after a few _convincing_ talks."

"Sherlock, I will make personal assurance," John pulled out his phone with one hand, the other still glued to the aimed gun, "that you do not get in on this interrogation." He dialed.

"What? Why?" Sherlock disputed.

"Because you need to let the police have a job."

* * *

**Aw, a ride on the London Eye, how cute! (:  
****Hope you enjoyed it! Please feel free to show your support with a follow/fav of me and my stories**


	3. This is why he doesn't get the milk

**It has been a while! Here's some more fluff :) Thank you for your patience**

* * *

"How do you survive these trips you make?" Sherlock asked John.

John Watson was pushing a shopping cart along the isles of the supermarket, pulling Sherlock Holmes behind him. Sherlock had been misbehaving since they left 221b for a quick grocery stop.

"It's not as bad as you're making it out to be," John responded, looking at his list.

"It is. Twice as much when you think you have to drag me behind you."

John turned to face him. "You'll go running off again."

"What does it matter? I'm a grown man,"

"Yes, physically, not mentally-"

"Are you belittling my intelligence, John?"

"No," John rolled his eyes, "No, Sherlock. But you are a child."

"Child?" Sherlock repeated in awe. John never insulted him. Even if he had before, it never really bothered him.

"Yes, Sherlock, you're a child," John pressed forward, dropping some beans into the cart.

* * *

Sherlock yanked his sleeve out of John's grasp, but continued following. John sighed, adding noodles to his collection of food. Behind him, Sherlock pulled his skull slightly out from behind his long coat and began mumbling to it.

"Who are you talking to, Sherlock?"

"No one."

John turned around quick enough to catch a glimpse of the skull's jawbone before Sherlock jerked it back into the protection of his coat. John's eyes popped out of his skull.

"Sherlock, you brought your bloody skull to the Supermarket?" John screeched as quietly as he could.

"What of it? I needed someone to talk to," Sherlock said with indifference.

"What of it? Sherlock, if you're seen with a bloody skull we'll have the police called on us!"

"And then we'll explain the misunderstanding to Lestrade. Stop making a fuss, John, it's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing, _I'm_ embarra-" John fumed, leaving his sentence unfinished. He pushed the cart into the next isle, leaving Sherlock behind.

* * *

Sherlock, seizing the opportunity, went the opposite direction in search of something to entertain him. He wondered why John had even bothered to bring him.

"I can't be the one who always makes these trips, so you're going to have to learn how," John had told him.

"Dull," Sherlock had replied, yet John insisted on dragging him along.

"It is rather boring, isn't it?" Sherlock asked his skull as he pulled it entirely out from under his coat. He walked through the cereal isle, approaching a woman and her daughter. The mother was facing the cereals, making decisions. Her daughter stood behind her, turning to see who the tall man was talking to. Her scream echoed through the entire building.

* * *

On the other side of the store, John's ears perked up. "Bloody _hell_, Sherlock!" he hissed and went running towards the origination of the scream. He finally arrived at the right isle, with an interesting sight to witness.

A woman was pressed up against the stacks of cereal, shielding her screaming daughter behind her. She was holding a phone to her ear, no doubt the police, while shifting her frightened gaze from Sherlock to the skull he was holding in front of him, then back to Sherlock again.

"Get away from me, you murderer!" the woman shrieked, making sure the other end of the phone line heard it.

"I'm not a murderer, though now and then they do assume so," Sherlock said slyly. This didn't have the effect Sherlock had hoped for. She seemed even more frightened.

* * *

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?" John exploded, pounding towards them.

Shifting his attention to John, Sherlock explained, "You walk twenty feet in this city and you arrive near some gormless idiot. I was merely trying to clarify to the skull that the holes in his head were normal, foramina allows the blood vessels to-"

"I told you not to run off again," John interrupted, not caring for the explanation he had asked for.

"_You_ left _me, _how is it my fault-"

"Because you brought your blood skull, Sherlock, that's why it's your fault. Look at them!" John motioned towards the trembling girls, "They are terrified out of their minds."

"And?" Sherlock questioned.

"And, you can't go around acting like-"

"Myself?"

"-Yes, Sherlock, yourself."

* * *

Lestrade and Donovan came around the corner, aiming their weapons down the isle. Seeing Sherlock, they both rolled their eyes. Lestrade confronted the two girls, "I assure you, Sherlock Holmes is not dangerous."

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock argued.

"Not helping, Sherlock," John sighed.

"For once, Sherlock, can't we have a day without a call from or about you?" Lestrade whined.

"Never," replied Sherlock, smiling at the skull in his hands.

* * *

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	4. Serial Arsonist

**Hope you enjoy another Sherlock fluff c:**

* * *

"John! Hurry!" Sherlock called out. John wandered towards him, coughing harshly. The fire cracked, causing the floor beneath them to shudder. John toppled onto the scolding wood floor, burning his hands.

"Next time," John uttered weakly, "You can handle the serial arsonists on your own." Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

The black smoke became thicker, filling more and more of the burning cabin from the top down. Sherlock removed his long coat and dropped down to John's level. He threw his coat over John's back.

"Come on, John, we're almost there. The cabin will collapse in-" Sherlock stopped, looking around the second floor of the wood cabin as if deducing how much time they had. Never finishing his sentence, John figured it wasn't long.

"Hurry!" Sherlock raised his voice over the flames. He wrapped his arm around John's back and pushed him ahead. "There's the stairs." They hobbled to the indoor balcony that over-looked the blazing first floor, only a charred railing blocking them from falling. A long, straight staircase broke the railing's border.

* * *

John stepped on the first stair. It gave way immediately, the flames eating away at the flammable timber with haste. John yelped and shot his hand up, grabbing the floor above as the rest of him jolted to a stop and dangled below. He looked down. There was a ten foot drop from his feet to the ground floor.

"John," Sherlock looked below them, his eyes scavenging its layout. "You have to let go. You have to let yourself drop!"

"Are you insane?" John coughed, "My leg finally healed and you want me to fuck it up again?"

"Trust me!" Sherlock stared at John's charcoal smudged face. "Do you trust me?"

John stared right back into Sherlock's bright eyes. They heavily contrasted the smoke billowing behind him. _What kind of a question is that? _John thought, and released his grip. As he fell, he shifted so his back was facing down and curled up to keep his limbs intact. John landed, Sherlock's coat in between him and the waning wood.

"Cover your face!" Sherlock shouted to John who immediately obeyed. Sherlock plunged his foot through the base of the railing on the second floor. The wood was so burnt up that the entire railing crumbled, its remains raining down to the floor.

From under the protection of Sherlock's coat, John hollered, "Sherlock, what are you-"

* * *

A loud crash broke John's sentence. Startled, John whipped the coat off his body and desperately searched the room for Sherlock. To the left, Sherlock was lying in a pile of rubble. Judging by what was still intact, John figured Sherlock had jumped off the balcony and crash landed on the table in the middle of the room. His nose and forehead were splattered with blood.

Sherlock groaned softly, but left his obvious pain unspoken. He crawled to John and put his coat back over John's body. "It's time to go," Sherlock croaked, his voice finally showing a change. Sherlock was used to smoke because of his nicotine addiction, but it wasn't normal to be breathing in such ghastly amounts of thick smoke. It seemed to finally be taking a toll on him.

"I can't…" John said softly. He didn't have the strength left in him. John wouldn't mind dying like a soldier. Dying to help Sherlock catch the crook he was so interested in. John wouldn't mind dying for Sherlock.

* * *

"Yes, you can," Sherlock exclaimed. John felt Sherlock's arms slide underneath his legs and back. Sherlock lifted him from the now burning floor and carried him out from beneath the staircase right as it toppled down. John clung to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around his neck.

"Hold your breath," Sherlock choked, "You'll inhale less of the smoke." John took in a small breath and held it, closing his stinging, watery eyes. Sherlock made progress towards the tilting doorway as fast as he could, keeping his face down.

* * *

"Send someone in there!" Lestrade shouted at one of the firemen just arriving. "My best guy is in there!"

"Inspector, please stand back, we'll do everything we can."

"Someone has to help them!"

"Sir, please stand back," the firefighter insisted, then continued to assist his co-workers with the water hoses.

Lestrade backed away from them but made a decision. "Someone has to!" He broke out into a desperate run, aimed straight at the burning doorway. Sergeant Donovan saw what Lestrade was doing and she hooked his arms behind his back before he could burst into the burning cabin.

"Someone has to help them, Donovan!" Lestrade wailed, losing control over his emotions.

"There's nothing we can do!" Donovan struggled to keep Lestrade contained.

* * *

Then, out of the flames, a single silhouette emerged. Appearing from the smoke, Sherlock stumbled through the door, John in his arms. Lestrade was looking down in grief, his eyes still glued to the ground.

Donovan let his arms go and nudged him. "Look!"

Lestrade looked up in time to see Sherlock laying John down gently on the grass, far from the cabin. "Sherlock!" Lestrade cried with delight, running to meet them.

An explosion shook the ground, the cabin pouring streams of dancing smoke and fire into the air. They had made it out just in time. Sherlock collapsed to the ground next to John, both of them coughing and gasping for breath.

"Hey! We need some oxygen masks over here, now!" Lestrade boomed. Donovan scurried to the firefighters, quickly explained, and grabbed what Lestrade had asked for. Sherlock grabbed one of the masks and shoved it over John's face. Sherlock only accepted his oxygen mask when Lestrade began holding it to his face.

* * *

The paramedics piled around the two detectives and began loading them into an ambulance. They both had major burns in need of treatment.

As they were being hauled into their ambulances, Lestrade asked Sherlock, "For all that trouble, did you figure out who the serial arsonist is?"

Sherlock smiled, "Who I suspected all along." The paramedic shut the ambulance door behind him.

* * *

**Don't you love it when Sherlock shows affection? ^/^ **

**Partially based off of the quote "You'll risk your life just to prove you're clever."**

**Don't forget to review, thanks for reading xoxo**


	5. Writer's Block

John stared at the blinking cursor on his laptop's bright screen. There was normally a world to write about for his blog. But lately Sherlock hadn't been as eventful as usual. He hadn't even looked for a case. Sherlock sat in the kitchen amid the clutter of science equipment and experiments, burying his head in the microscope. John could only wonder what he was doing.

"Sherlock?" John finally addressed him after a few hours of distracted attempts to write a new post for his blog. There was only a murmur in response.

"Why haven't you gotten on any cases recently?" John asked.

Sherlock stared, unmoving, into the microscope's lens. John got up from his chair, setting the laptop aside with frustration. He joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

"What have you been up to?" John questioned.

"Science." Sherlock answered simply. He seemed to be uninterested in anything other than his work, whatever his work was.

"Specifically?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "I'm having a particularly difficult time identifying this substance."

John chuckled quietly. "You're stuck?"

"I'm not stuck, John, it's a bump in the road." Sherlock said, annoyed.

"You're stuck, aren't you? Admit it."

"Admit what?"

"The egotistical Sherlock Holmes has been stumped!" John laughed at the reality of it.

"Believe what you like," Sherlock refocused on his work, but John could see the irritation it was causing him. Smiling, John returned to the living room and was finally able to tap out words.

* * *

He hadn't written for over a week and couldn't seem to come up with anything good. John had received numerous messages bugging him to update his blog. They wanted to know more about Sherlock's experiences. The problem was that for the past few weeks Sherlock had done absolutely nothing.

Most of the time, he would lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling, not uttering a word. He would sometimes get up and pace about the apartment, John having to reprimand the shots fired from Sherlock's gun. The remainder of the time, if he hadn't been doing the other things, he would sit at the kitchen table bustling about with experiments. This didn't give John much writing material.

But now he realized he could write about Sherlock's preference to solitary when he wasn't caught up in a case. To add to it, John could explain the imperfection in some of Sherlock's pastimes. It was relatable, and would remind his readers that Sherlock Holmes was human, just like all of them. No matter how miraculous Sherlock seemed, there was a logical process for everything he deduced. It was all just another form of science, really.

* * *

"What are you typing?" Sherlock's voice startled John.

"My blog, Sherlock." John replied.

"I thought it was about me."

"It is."

"I haven't worked any cases. There's nothing to write about."

John smiled at Sherlock's poor attempt at subtlety. "I'm writing about your normal habits. The readers like to relate themselves to you, that way they feel closer to you."

"Why would they want to feel close to me?" Sherlock asked, disgusted.

"Because you're a hero, in their eyes."

"I'm not a hero, John-"

"I know, I know."

"I don't have habits." Sherlock mumbled quietly.

John held in a sigh and widened his eyes. He pretended he hadn't heard Sherlock's last comment and let the conversation end there, while his fingers continued to patter rhythmically on the keyboard.


End file.
